


Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

by crowleyshouseplant (orphan_account)



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Reality, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, F/F, Femslash, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-26
Updated: 2011-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-28 05:04:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/304038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/crowleyshouseplant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are no longer friends of Narnia, the Devil, demons, God, or his angels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

**Author's Note:**

> The first two parts are sort of a college AU thing, I guess. Susan is in modern times, in America.
> 
> My treatment of Amelia Novak is based on the original treatment for the Novaks--that Jimmy was not particularly righteous, especially in comparison to Amelia. I've emphasized her faith because I thought it worked well with Susan and Narnia in general.
> 
> Title and narrative structure based on Lauper's song of course.

**You Gonna Live Your Life Right?**

Lisa Braeden should be home. Should be eating dinner with Mom and Dad and the dog on the floor begging for scraps with unblinking eyes.

Instead, she’s kissing Susan’s cunt while she tells her about how she used to be a queen with her brothers and sister.

Lisa creeps upward, laves Susan’s navel with her tongue, nibbling the soft flesh in the hollow of her hips while Susan squirms and shivers beneath her, words more air than voice.  Susan reaches down, grips Lisa by her hair, pulls her up so that they’re kissing each other on the mouth, wet sloppy kisses because Lisa’s mouth is smeared with Susan and Susan uses her tongue like she’s starving, like she hasn’t eaten or drunk for forty days and forty nights, and it’s rough as Susan bites Lisa’s lips, but Lisa doesn’t mind because her head’s pulled back by the hair so that Susan can nip at her pulse point, can bite the tender triangle where skin and neck and jaw meet, can suck a hickie into her flesh and before Lisa knows it, she’s the one on her stomach as Susan palms her clit and licks circles in the small of her back, her skin prickling as Susan blows at the sensitive skin there with her damp breath as she whispers—“Dubbed Queen Susan the Gentle—” grinding against each other and Lisa wonders how her skin is still sewn shut around her.

Lisa tries to say, “Gentle?” but it comes out in a frustrated moan as Susan takes her hand away just as she was about to come, spreading herself over Lisa so that she’s pressed into the bed, the soft cotton sheets a mere tease to her throbbing clit, her needing lips, Susan’s weight making it impossible to grind against the mattress, and Susan plays her ribs with her right hand, brushing against the sensitive underside of her breast, while with her other hand gathers Lisa’s wrists and holds them against a rumpled pillow above her head. Even though she has bits of sheet and hair in her mouth as Susan slides a knee between her legs, twisting her nipples, Lisa says, “They must not have known you at all.”

“Who?” Susan says after Lisa finally comes, gasping and heaving and sweating over Susan’s hand and bed.

Lisa bucks Susan off, rolls to her side. Without Susan on her back, without the heady exhilaration of sex, without damp cloth near her mouth and nose, Lisa’s lungs flood with oxygen and she reels for a moment, clings to Susan’s leg and ankle as the world spins, until she sees the flush on Susan’s neck and chest, at the way her nipples are hard and erect, her legs splayed open, the hair between them dark and damp.  “Your loyal subjects,” Lisa says as she drops to her knees before the bed, tugs Susan towards her so that her back falls with a soft whump against the sheets, until her legs dangle over Lisa’s shoulders, until her wet cunt is right at the edge of the mattress. She looks up from the v of Susan’s leg, smiling under the sheen of sweat, her palms spread wide over the cradle of Susan’s hips, pressing her down so that she can reach all the right places with her tongue. “Perhaps I should show them a thing or two,” Lisa says, dipping her head into Susan, breathing the sweet and tangy scent of her—licking and suckling as she slips into Susan’s canal, crooking her fingers so that they rubbed that spot inside, that made Susan thrust and grind against her hand, her tongue, her mouth, her voice caught in her throat, deeper, rougher. And when she finally came, when she lifted herself from the bed, her hair snarled around her head, sex-rough and big from rubbing against the sheets, Lisa leans upwards, winds her fingers through it. “You’re a lion. You’ve got your mane.”

And Susan snaps her teeth at her, lips barred in a growl. “I have to pick up my kid sister,” Susan says. “She may have been queen, but it’s funny how state law doesn’t recognize that as a valid reason to grant her a driver’s license.”

Laughter bubbles up from Lisa as they help each other get dressed because it’s easy to believe that lands exist in wardrobes and that this was actually Susan’s second life because of how non-chalant Susan was in her belief. Like it didn’t matter if the world thought it was implausible, children’s fanciful games—that she knew it had happened and that was enough for her.

“Wouldn’t you rather be back there, back in Narnia where you were queen and there were merfolk in the waters and sprites in the trees and where you didn’t have to worry about rent or picking up your sister or getting a degree so that you can get a good eight to five job?”

“I would never go back,” Susan says. “If I could get my hands on it, I would take an axe to that wardrobe. And I would never go back.”

“Why?”

Susan prowls close, cups Lisa’s face between her palms. “Because. Queens were supposed to marry Kings.” Then she bends down, presses her lips against Lisa’s forehead. “Go home, Lisa. Before your parents get mad at you.”

Lisa doesn’t make it back in time before her parents tell her that she should be doing her homework, that she should be eating with the family, that she shouldn’t be walking home after dark. “Leave me alone,” she says, slamming the door behind her.

 _I’m not afraid._

 **My Father Yells What You Gonna Do With Your Life**

Amelia Novak sits on the hard floor of the church, pale hands, her rosary threaded through her fingers, clasped in her lap. Hunger gnaws at her belly, and skin stretched tight over her cheekbones shivers and spasms under her eye.

She sits perfectly still, her ears trained and listening, her eyes only blinking when they begin to sting and weep from air exposure. She will not miss a vision, she will not miss a whisper.

The pain in her knees, the weight pushing her kneecap against the hard, thinly carpeted floor, focuses her pain. Blunts the sound of traffic, the honking horns of the rails, the white noise of a thousand people tramping by this quiet place, this cathedral with its glass Jesuses and Marys stained white and blue and gold.

The door creaks open behind her and steps, loud and echoing against the towering walls, ruin her concentration. She swallows it down, and turns so that she can see. There’s another girl, maybe her age, maybe just starting life in college. Maybe they even go to the same small-town college.

“I saw you through the window,” she says by way of explanation. “All by yourself. Looking like you’re about to cry.”

Amelia rubs her wrists over her eyes but her skin comes back dry.  “Who are you?”

“Susan. Susan Pevensie.” She settles onto a pew, her feet pigeon toed, elbows planted on her knees, eyes staring at the top of the crucifix, neck a graceful line as her throat works up and down.

Amelia stares at her knees.

“I just received word,” Susan says after a few minutes, “that my entire my family died on an unfortunate train accident back in England.”

Amelia jerks around, falling sidewise from her knees so that she’s more on her thigh, feet twisted awkwardly under her. “What?” The words jar in her mouth. “I’m sorry.”

Susan refuses to look down, but her face is stiffening and she keeps her eyes pried open because if she blinks Amelia knows that the water filling up those delicate lids will brim over and stain her cheeks.

“He took them,” Susan says, her voice hard and sharp like the way her nails are digging into her stockings and her knees.  “He took them away from me.”

Amelia clears her throat. “To a better place—“

The shards of Susan’s laughter hurt Amelia’s ears, and she shudders underneath her voice. “How do you know?” Susan slides to the floor, crawls closer to Amelia so close that she can feel the huff of her breath over her lips. “How do you know?”

“I believe,” Amelia says, clutching the string of rosary beads closer to herself. “I believe.”

Susan locks her eyes on Amelia’s, dips her head closer, shoulders hunched forwards. “Why? Has he shown himself to you? Spoken in your ears? Writ his word on your heart?”

Amelia opens her mouth, and her throat is empty of words and voice even as her lips try to shape words.

“I’ve seen him,” Susan whispers. “I’ve seen the death and the resurrection and the redemption that he chose to grant to those favored few.”

Amelia plays with the beads, ducks away from Susan’s glance, the flint in her eyes.

“I’ve seen him reveal himself to my little sister. Seen him lead her through the snowy wastelands and the rocky wildernesses. Seen him whisper in her ear and inscribe his words on her heart.”  She leans closer until her lips whisper against the shell of Amelia’s ear. “I’ve seen him breathe on her so that she can be a lioness with his strength.” She sits back on her haunches and Amelia feels a chill without the closeness of Susan to close the space between them.

“He told us that we would know him by another name here. And I have. Just not the name he had in mind.” Susan squeezes her eyes shut, grips her knees with the fleshy pads of her fingertips.  She climbs to her feet, sways a little. “So I don’t really understand what you’re waiting for.”

Amelia reaches after her, grips her by the hem of her slacks.  “Anything. A single word. An affirmation. An annunciation.”

Susan drops to her knees gracelessly, banging her knees and shins against the hard floor and Amelia winces on her behalf since Susan notices nothing. She grips Amelia’s chin with her hard fingers. “Why?”

Amelia slides her hand up Susan’s wrist. “Maybe you weren’t listening. Maybe you heard, but didn’t. Saw but didn’t really. Too blinded with the mote in your eye, the wax in your ears.”

Susan looms over her. “My comprehension is fine,” and she’s whispering, her words threaded with a thin blade of voice that shears through Amelia, makes her shudder in Susan’s fist. “Haven’t you wondered,” Susan says, “why it’s you who’s never listening. Maybe—“ and they’re cheek to cheek now “—maybe it’s not you, but it’s him. Maybe he’s not listening. Maybe his heart is the one that’s not in the right place. Maybe he’s not the one who’s humble enough, who’s righteous enough. Maybe you’re just too good for him, have you ever thought about that?” Susan slides her hand down her throat until it settles on the hard piece of bone caging Amelia’s thumping heart. “You should be too full for him in here. You shouldn’t be empty.”

 “Are you empty?” Amelia says.

Susan drops her hand from Amelia’s body. “My quiver is always full.” She rises to her feet, holds out her hand.

Amelia ignores it, instead resettles herself on her knees at Susan’s feet, gripping her rosary in her slick and sweaty palm.

Susan’s feet click away down the hall, the door thudding closed behind her, and Amelia is alone. “My god, my father—“ and she hates how her voice sounds thready and thin.

The Cathedral is silent. So is her head and her heart and all the spaces in between. She settles deeper on her knees, neck stiffening.

She’ll be better.

She’ll be worthy.

 **The One to Walk in the Sun**

They’re older now—they tell whoever asks that their kids are attending college but they know better—Claire gone on a quest or hunt or obsession to find Castiel, the body of her father, the soul of her father, her father wherever he may be and Ben, maybe, to find the father stolen from him, taken from him.

Same story, just different voices.

Susan hides behind a tree in the haunted forest, the wind a razor against her bare scalp.  She holds her bow at the ready, the spell-etched arrows sharp, piercing, as she waits, strung as tight as her bow.

She covers Lisa and Amelia from behind. They’ve stripped to their tank tops, grime mudded in the sweat between their jutting shoulder blades, smeared across the high planes of their cheeks and down their fronts. Lisa flanks Amelia, supporting the shovel with her shoulder as Amelia douses the bones they’ve dug up with gasoline, pours salt over the remains, and murmurs a Latin prayer as she drops a flaring match.

Susan puts her bow and arrows away—a simple salt and burn, but it never hurts to be too careful when heaven, hell, and purgatory have been unleashed upon the world. She rejoins the others, traces their anti-possession tattoos peeking above the edges of their tank-tops with her fingers as she kisses them. Amelia’s rosary is longer than when they had first met—it loops around her waist, a silver crucifix banging against her hip, each bead carved with a ghost, a demon, or an angel.

Susan smiles at the beaded length, at the way they frame her navel. She loves watching Amelia pare a new wooden bead after a successful hunt, at the way her fingers, hardened with callouses, presses the wood into shape and meaning. She will never forget the second time they met, when her back was bent over her wood shavings, the wings of her shoulders jutting from under her thin bra strap. She was flint then, like now, and Jimmy was gone and God was gone and all the angels were gone and her faith was gone.

No more kneeling on cathedral floors for Amelia Novak.

 _Why the rosary-trophy_ , Susan had asked before she had even kissed Amelia, before they fell all three of them into a bed together.

“I fill myself up,” Amelia had said, “so that nothing will ever scoop me hollow again—“ and her eyes flickered and Lisa gripped her shoulder and they clung together, Lisa breathing controlled breaths through her nose, Amelia murmuring an exorcism chant in Latin.

They had promised her both that they would never let something take hold of Susan like it had them, like it had their husbands and their children.

They pile their stuff in the back of their car, then Susan takes the wheel while Lisa slips into the passenger side, Amelia between the two of them. They pull into their hotel parking lot, pile into the shower, watch the dirt fall down their legs, between the webs of their toes, before swirling down the drain in a lather of shampoo and cheap bar soap.

Then they fall into the bed together, sheets and quilts kicked off as they drape their thighs and their arms over each other. They close their eyes and they fall asleep to each other’s breathing, the sleep-slurred words of a goodnight, the sound of each other’s hearts beating against the cages of their ribs.


End file.
